


Such Vanity (M!DB/Ralof)

by Nudebeme



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Cock Tease, Humor, M/M, Violence, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 14:11:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4103797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nudebeme/pseuds/Nudebeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chac gets into a tangle with a certain young man after he’d pledged his allegiance to Ulfric’s cause. The going is good, until Chac learns he’s not everything he thinks he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such Vanity (M!DB/Ralof)

Chac was in the shittiest mood he can ever remember being in. He never meant for this to happen, even though he knew this awful fate was already written for him. He doesn’t think anyone really knew just how hard the decision he made was; no one realized how much was at stake no matter which side he chose. Taking the lesser of two evils just seemed to be the only option he had. 

He disliked the empire. He disliked what they stood for, what it was like to have your freedoms taken from your for the “greater good”, to which the Nords would never experience. He disliked the empire, but he hated the Aldmeri Dominion. Hating them would put it lightly, for he knew what happens to good people who refuse to have their rights taken from them. They are simply…removed. He’d seen entire tribes wiped out back in Valenwood, and the ones who agreed to the Dominion’s terms where enslaved, indentured. 

Ulfric’s words where not completely true, but he knew at heart his cause is righteous. Chac didn’t trust those green eyes of his, they held so much envy and gluttony it was outrageous…But Chac had no choice. He admired the man’s tenacity, his willingness to fight for his people’s freedom. He couldn’t choose the Empire over him, there was simply no doubt about that. 

But once he’d made his decision, once Skyrim and the world found out what the Dragonborn had decided… all hell broke loose. Friends became enemies, fickle rich families suddenly found Chac so delightful where before they could care less. It was just an awful feeling, doing this. 

And worst of all..Gods, worst of all, Teldryn left him. The Dunmer he thought he’d have at his side as his partner until the end. Teldryn didn’t hate Chac, he just couldn’t fathom the idea of being at his side while he fought under a bastard like Ulfric’s banner. Teldryn lied, he said he would stay by his side no matter what choice he made and that promise alone made Chac a little more at ease.

But he did lie. And Chac couldn’t blame him. Being without him for the first time in almost a year and a half was gods awful, being completely alone like this without his dearest friend was enough to bring Chac to tears almost every time he found himself alone at night. He hasn’t cried over losing a friend like this in so long, even if Teldryn wasn’t truly lost. He’d find a way to get him back, when this terrible civil war is over.   
Gaining Ulfric’s favor wasn’t easy. The haughty Nord was practically impervious to Chac’s charm, and the Bosmer knew a racist when he saw one, and Ulfric was, entirely. Being the only elf on their side of the war was terribly lonely, and only when Falkreath was taken and liberated did any of them even consider Chac to be on their side, and not some Aldmeri spy. Galmar still had the fires of distrust in his eyes, could hear his gravelly whispers in Ulfric’s ear when he was just out of earshot.

He wanted this to be over. But there was a long way to go.

Alone and hiking his way into Riverwood, night was settling fast over the ruins in the distance. He remembered more than two years ago stumbling in here, that blonde Nord he’d saved at his side, showing him the first inkling of friendliness since he’d dragged himself across the border. Strange, that Chac should think about him on a night like this, because as he kicked his dirty boots at the Inn’s doorway, he caught a flash of the same honey-blonde hair.

It was no secret to the locals of Chac’s standing, they too smiled in relief to see the new Stormcloak make his way into the Inn for a rest. The elf was wealthy this time around, and Chac tried his hardest not to lock eyes with Ralof the second he walked in. Throwing money down for a room and a drink, he didn’t even need to ignore the man, he came strolling his big way right up to Chac’s side.

“If it isn’t the star warrior of the Stormcloaks! My friend, it’s been too long. I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever come to your senses and see that Ulfric’s cause is righteous.” The others in the bar agreed, all eyes on Chac like he was so used to by now. Chac glanced his alien eyes up to Ralof, the man he’d never really gotten to know but had admired for their short friendship. He was a young buck, still full of that spirit you lose as an older man. His eyes where the most intense blue Chac thinks he’d ever seen, and he caught himself being trapped by them. “You’ve been stirring up trouble for the Empire, I like that. Ever since we found the Jagged Crown, things have taken a good turn for us.”

“I guess you’d like to hear that I cleared out the Imperial camp just east of Rorikstead.”

“Wh-what? By yourself?”

“In the night, they didn’t see me coming. I’d have told Ulfric, but I thought I’d spend the night here before I make my way out to Eastmarch.”

“Did you hear that?! Orgnar, a drink for the elf, on me!”

“Heh, I can pay for my own drinks, Ralof.”

“Nonsense. I heard Legate Cipius ran that camp. What of him?”

“Dead, in the mud.” Chac smirks, enjoying the way the young Nord simply beamed with excitement to the good news.

“Fuuh, Well! I’d say you’re about halfway to my Imperial kill count! Hahahaha!” Ralof happily punched Chac hard enough on the shoulder to tip his barstool a bit, the Bosmer admiring his roughness. Whether or not Ralof honestly believed that he was ahead on the count, Chac didn’t really care.

“I think starting the count from the beginning would behoove us both. It’s not fair.”

“Bullshit! Come over by the fire and have a drink with me, tell me all about it.” Ralof welcomed himself to grab the elf’s drink from his hand and march his way to the open seats, local Stormcloak supporters smiling at him welcomingly. It felt so strange being hated in one town and revered in the next, but he appreciated every second of it now.

Ralof shoved the drink back into his hand hard enough for the mead to splash his armor. “Puh, sorry about that, my friend. I’ve got a heavy hand.”

Chac could only smile, taking a drink before undoing the catches of his heavy armor to set it down at his side, a colorful tunic below it that Ralof thought was just garish. “It’s a good Nord trait, don’t worry about it.” Landing his tired ass into the wooden chair, the blonde joined him in enjoying the warm hearth and eager to hear the news.

“So tell me all about it, did they squeal like pigs when you stuck them?”

“Heh, well, I did manage to kill most of them in their sleep before the rest caught on.” Chac procured the very blade he used, a dagger dark as night that still bore remains of Imperial blood. Ralof eyed it with such interest that Chac couldn’t contain his smile. “The Legate wasn’t easy to bring down with five men at his side, but that’s where the perks of being Dragonborn come in.”

“Shouted em’ to pieces, eh? Ulfric would have done the same. I envy you, you know? It still bloody baffles me that an elf like yourself would be given this gift by Talos.”

“Mmm. I hear that a lot. Believe me, I’m sure it surprised me more out of anyone in Skyrim.”

“I’m sure Galmar has taken a liking to you. I’m not even sure if Galmar knows my name.” Ralof mutters, with a hinted jealousy. What Nord didn’t want to be a legend? It’s what every young man in Skyrim strove for.

“Liking wouldn’t be the right word.”

“Well, he tolerates you. That’s more than any of us footsloggers can say.” Ralof finished his tankard of mead in an incredible display of breath control. It went from full to empty in seconds flat, the sugary drink catching light on his blonde beard. Chac found himself smiling softly to the sight, it’d been weeks since he’d met eyes with a likely looking man. Stormcloak soldiers where often less than appealing, unwashed with that “from the mountains” look to them. Ralof was really something else.

“Well I don’t want to make it a competition, I just want this war to end with as little Nords killed as possible. The Dominion will not take this country without my say in it.” Chac tried his words with Ralof, wondering if a gentle prying and sweet phrase or two would make any sort of dent in the young man. He knew what Ralof liked to hear, and he wasn’t shy of saying anything. “Of course, not counting the competition we have going. I plan on winning, by the way.”

“Oh, you won’t win! No chance, elfy boy!” Ralof laughs raucously, topping off his tankard with a second round of mead. “I’ve been wielding an axe fighting for this country since I was a young cub.”

“Elfy boy, eh? I’m 183 years old, Ralof.”

“Ergh,” Ralof glared at him up and down, he’d spent so little time around elves that he was nearly clueless as to their lives. He just knew of them as the enemy, and that was that. “So that makes you think you got something on Ralof, eh? I’m young, strong, and the fiercest Nord you’ll ever come across!”

“Who would win in a wrestle do you think, you or I?” Chac smirks, taking gulps of the mediocre drink while the Nord beat his chest. “300 septims says I can lay you flat in seconds.”

“I’d win, of course! Erm, but I don’t think we should. Not in here, anyway. Orgnar doesn’t need the trouble, after all.”

“Heh, I think you’re afraid of me.”

“Never! That 300 septims is mine.” Ralof leaps out of his chair, throwing his now empty tankard on the ground and pointing down the elf. “We take it outside. They can’t see two Stormcloaks beating the shite out of each other, after all.”

“You just don’t want them to see me skin you alive.” Chac snickers, standing and leaving his armor behind, opening the door for Ralof who so charmingly forgets to thank him. He loved the rough-and-tumble way of these Nords, he felt like he fit right in. It was dark and damned cold outside, the moon’s reflection on the rooftop of the blacksmith’s some of the only light around. A scrappy dog as their only witness, it wasn’t long before the two where cracking their knuckles with fierce gleams in their eyes.

“I’ll throw you in the river, little elf.”

“If you can get down from the tree I’ll string you up in.” Chac raises his fists, seeing how tall and strapping the young man was. He wouldn’t be much of a fight, but that doesn’t mean he can’t pretend and let the headstrong Nord have his way. By the time the first few swings where in, the fun had already begun.

Together they where able to land heavy punches to each other, Chac holding back his inhuman strength while Ralof threw everything he was into those hits. Chac loved this, he really did, There was nothing like getting in a tangle with a handsome thing like Ralof. He decided a few punches wasn’t going to satisfy him, soon enough he’s grappling the young man and roughing him around, throwing him this way and that, pressing the Nord up against a tree while he struggled with all his might.

“Cheap shot!” He roars, grabbing Chac by the throat and doing his own base attack and throttling the elf until he was able to get Chac on the ground. Together they rolled and kicked up the dirt, a wicked smile in Chac’s eyes all the while. Ralof was heavy, and he let the young man roll atop him and cram himself between the elf’s legs. “Take this, you milk drinker!” He cries, Chac grabbing his wrists and deflecting every blow.

That vicious look in Ralof’s blue eyes was arousing, to say the least. His cheeks and lips flushed red from the cold, big and rugged hands balled up into fists waiting to strike Chac’s face. Nothing happened for the longest time, both of them doing little more than writhing against each other in an attempt to dominate. The dog watched all the while, a constant source of barking while Chac managed to throw Ralof on his back.

“Puh!” The wind was knocked out of him, and Chac thought he’d push his limits, slamming Ralof’s hands at the sides of his face, pinning him tight. This was his favorite place atop a bigger man, to say he wasn’t secretly getting off on the close contact would be a lie. Ralof said nothing, catching his breath in great, handsome gasps. “This..guh..this isn’t how you fight!”

“I think you’re losing.”

“And I think you’re cheating.” Ralof growled, struggling once again and failing to unpin himself.

“If you think you can keep fighting, you’d best get used to looking up at me…” Chac slithers, his voice low, tempting. This is where he thought he could change this situation into something much better, if Ralof replied.

“Big words from a little man.” Ralof spat, defiantly.

“Look closer Ralof, I’m not so little.”

The brash man gave Chac a look up and down that aroused the elf immensely, thinking this was it; this was where he could muscle the pretty thing back into his room and take this fight to a new level.

“I’m looking. Have you always been this ugly?” Ralof snickers, his forehead being tickled by the dreads that fell about his face. Chac deadpanned, never once hearing that word used for him before. His insult rang inside the Bosmer’s skull, and with a ferocious punch, he stuns the rude man just long enough to haul him over his shoulder. Enough games, Chac thought miserably. Ralof didn’t know up from down in the short time he had to recover from such a vicious punch. He began to struggle, kicking and pulling the elf’s hair, before with a victorious, angry wail he throws the Nord into the river. The splash he made was of little victory for Chac, who’s ego was shattered.

When Ralof surfaced, the elf was glowering at him eternally. “Fine, you win.” He coughs, freezing cold. “Take the 300 septims and tell eeeveryone back in Eastmarch you whooped my sorry hide.” Ralof scrambled out of the water, Chac no longer finding his soaking wet, shivering form to be handsome.

“I don’t want your money!” Chac yelled loudly, stomping his way back into the Inn without another word. From Teldryn constantly ridiculing him to this? What was wrong with him anyway? Ugly? Is that what Nords think of him? Chac was confused and hurt more than he should have been, storming off into his room to brood inside. Only then did he realize he left his armor at the hearth, going back outside with the same vicious frown and gathering it, slamming the door shut so hard it shook dust off the ceiling. Inn patrons all stared at each other with confusion, Ralof soon entering the bar moments later to pay his tab.

He was soaking wet, blonde hair stuck fast to his forehead and boots squishing with every step. Orgnar was about to say something before the young man slapped his coin down on the table, pointing an accusing finger “Don’t say a word. I know when I’ve taken my licks. Give this to the elf when he wakes up, okay?” He throws nearly 300 septims down on the bar, taking his leave with his ego equally as injured as his cheek.

Inside his room, Chac broods furiously to what Ralof said to him. Ugly. Hah, what a joke. He was certain the man had eyes for him, but Chac wonders if he’s losing his touch. It was hard to read these Nord men, and that was infuriating. Tomorrow he’ll head back to Eastmarch where he’s sure he’ll endure the same belittling treatment from that elegant bastard, Ulfric. Amid the stress and the humiliation, Chac felt like weeping. He hated this, and there was no escape from it all.


End file.
